


Fear Is For The Winter

by MeeMaw



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-20 12:23:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16555688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeeMaw/pseuds/MeeMaw
Summary: Daenerys carries the ghosts of Essos with her. Jon carries with him the ghosts of his previous life.“In this part of the story I am the one who dies,the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,because I love you, Love, In fire and in blood.”― Pablo Neruda





	1. Fear Is For The Winter - I

**Author's Note:**

> The story is a follow-up of ADWD and S6 of GoT. Jon Snow is the KITN and Daenerys Targaryen has finally come to Westeros.
> 
> Dragonstone visit never happened. Jon knows who his parents were. Courtesy, Samwell Tarly, Brandon Stark (3ER) and Howland Reed.

One of the black brothers enters his chambers, a raven from Winterfell has brought more ill-omen. Another war has come to the southern kingdom of Westeros and it promises to bring more destruction than the last.

 

He understands the futility of this war better than the ones fighting it. The Lion, the Kraken, and one of the two Dragons will burn and so will Westeros; and if by some luck, it does not burn in fire, there will soon come a time when it burns in ice.

 

“The Others take them all!” He snarls and throws the crushed parchment in the hearth. _Mayhaps they will._ The southern fools have been ignoring his warnings and pleas, and even with him assuming the title of the King in the North, none of the players in the game of thrones is prepared to acknowledge the threat that is looming beyond the Wall. The South knows the North will starve soon, most of its fighting men having been perished in years of wars or at the hands of cold. They do not need its people, only the claim over its lands. _Stupid fucks! They think they can defeat winter!_

 

He goes back to his desk and picks up a quill to write to the one he thinks will win this absurd cotillion.

 

_‘Queen Daenerys Targaryen,_

_You are bound on fighting the wrong war. It is north you should be bringing your swords and your dragons. North, not south. You will be ruling over dead bones and a graveyard if you don’t. Come, see for yourself if you do not believe me._

_~ King Jon Snow’_

 

*****

 

Having vanquished the mummer’s dragon and the Lion and with the fleeing of the craven Kraken to Essos, the Dragon Queen finally turns her eyes north.

 

“I will go to Winterfell. To treat with its _king_.” The way the word rolls of her tongue, she means to mock him.

 

Tyrion advises her against it. _Make him your ally, not your enemy. Winters are what Starks have been promising, wolves are made for winters._

 

He tells her the tale of a sullen bastard boy with a face so still and hard, it was never easy to read his mind. The boy was the son of Lord Eddard Stark but Lady Catelyn Stark was not his mother. So he ought to leave. A boy with an easy certainty of youth, full of hopes and dreams, yearning to make a name for himself. In the end, it was all a lie. It was not the noble calling he hoped for. Instead he was thrown in midden heap of the misfits of the realm. Poachers, debtors, thieves, murderers, rapers, you name it.

 

The boy rose high. Not because of his name, he had no name, he was a bastard. He rose through the ranks, from steward to the Lord Commander and now holds the North with nothing but sheer will and strength of his sword arm.

 

“Why do you speak so highly of this King? Do you wish to serve him, my lord?” The Queen smirks, trying to disguise her admiration under her nonchalant expression.

 

Tyrion whirls the wine in the goblet and takes a deep draught of it before saying, “Gods forbid, Your Grace. You think I would give up Dornish red for the northern ale? Its just that I have a soft spot for bastards and broken things.”

 

She feels sympathy for the boy who had to leave his home; she remembers her marble house with the red door. But this _king_ has seceded from the union and still seeks her help. It should be easy to bring back the North in their fold. “The wolves  can howl at the moon, but the beasts of the land should be wary of the dragon. Send a raven to Winterfell, my lord. Tell the King in the North that my army will be marching to the Wall and we will bring no harm to his people as long as they let us pass safely.”

 

She hopes the wisdom and tact of Torrhen Stark has not been forgotten; she is tired of fighting.

 

*

 

When she lands on the parapets of Winterfell, the castle-folk scramble to find their feet. It is two women and a plump Maester who come forward in welcoming her. The wolfmaids curtsy for her. ‘ _The North has a King’_ they say and that their knees do not bend.

 

_They will come around once their King bends the knee._ She knows it.

 

Lord Brandon Stark invites her to the Godswood. The same plump Maester she had seen earlier and a small man clad in moss green shirt with bronze scales on it are present by his side. The two wolfmaids escort her. The Stark boy has no prudence. _‘He is the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Rhaegar annulled his marriage to Elia, and married Lyanna. He's the true heir to the Iron Throne, not you.’_

 

“Let him try.” Her voice is chilling and colder than the winds of winter. She has fought a mummer calling himself son of her valiant brother, Rhaegar not moons ago. His name was Aegon too.

 

The Maester steps in, clearly miffed with the boy. “Your Grace, my name is Samwell Tarly. My father was a bannerman of your House and during rebellion, we remained loyal till the end. I am sorry for what happened with you and your family, your grace. But we have records from the Citadel you may wish to see. And Lord Reed here was present when Lord Stark found Jon at the Tower of Joy in Dorne and brought him north, to raise Jon as his own get.” She remembers House Tarly. She has met its new heir, Dickon Tarly, who swore fealty to her after Randyll Tarly perished fighting for the Lannister usurper.

 

She is almost receptive to what Lord Howland has to say, to see the documents from the Citadel, when Bran Stark interrupts. “I can show you everything I have seen in my vision if you come with me and place your hand on the bark of the weirwood tree.”

 

She steps back and raise a hand. “No need. I would not dabble in sorcery and witchcraft. It has taken much from me.” Everyone misses the quake in her voice and she steels herself once again. “I wish to meet your king myself. The one who fashions himself as a dragon.”

 

This time the dark haired wolfmaid interrupts and speaks with proud fierceness, “He has not claimed his dragon. He rules these lands as a wolf. For he is as much a wolf as any of us.”

 

 

*

 

_Horns blare !_

 

A woman has come to Castle Black. _Daenerys Targaryen_ , he knows. Winterfell has kept him informed on her movements. He swiftly moves out the door, Ghost silently padding beside him. Not snarling or prickly. Jon pauses when he notices it and exhales through his parted lips. It is bizarrely calming.

 

She sits atop her mount. A glorious black beast with ruby red eyes. _Much like Ghost’s_. The dragon closes the distance between them in a swift, threatening rush of its limbs. The beast bares its teeth and roars menacingly in Jon’s face. _Is she trying to cower me?_ There is nowhere to hide or run, and Jon removes his moleskin glove and reaches out to the beast, touching its rough, scaly hide with his hand. The dragon sniffs and corrects its threatening stance into a submitting one. Its fierce red eyes look into Jon’s grey ones and the giant casts a shadow along Jon’s human form, leaving his hand frozen against its burning scales.

 

Daenerys has no intentions of threatening her host and does not understand what made Drogon charge towards the man in front of her. But his bravery and the trust Drogon demonstrates in him is oddly comforting.

 

She dismounts and acknowledges him, _‘My Lord’_. He does not dispute her. His identity has exchanged hands so many times, he does not know who is he anymore. _Well, death is a bottomless pit of sorts_ , he reflects, _and_ _when this day’s work is done my name will be shadowed forever._ He will accept any title as long as it brings him armies and dragons.

 

_‘Your Grace’._ He returns and bows slightly.

 

She immediately regrets calling him a Lord. He is the chosen king of people of the north. His humility reminds her for the first time since coming to Westeros that she did not come here to bend people to her will. She came here to make a better world. ‘ _And to fulfil a dream which was not mine to begin with’_ , she sighs.

 

She smiles cautiously. Only to not look hostile. She is not hostile, not truly. She considers there may be some truth in that he shares her blood and is the trueborn son of her honorable brother. _The rumours his brother, his bannerman, and his friend were spreading_. She hates the paranoia and mistrust that has become a part of her essence but sadly, she cannot bring herself to shake it off.

 

When she smiles, he sees the woman behind the queen; breathtakingly beautiful and utterly feminine. And then it is gone. A rigid mask back in place as she turns around to summon her men. There is an air of power and magic that surrounds her.

 

When she stretches her hand and reaches out to Ghost, he means to warn her that the direwolf is a wild and ferocious beast. It is embarrassing and hilarious at the same time, the way Ghost leans into her touch and rolls his head under her hand.

 

*

 

Despite the fearsome beast that she rides and all the tales of horror that precede her, the men look. The black brothers have not seen such beauty. Hells, _he_ has never witnessed such beauty. But he is cautious and wary of her. Dying does it to people.

 

Before entering the chambers of late Maester Aemon, she inhales deeply and twines her fingers in front of her coat. Jon ponders if she expects meeting the Maester’s ghost in there. She removes one glove and runs her fingers on the desk the Maester used, the frame of his bed, the chair, even the walls. “I was hoping to see him alive.” She murmurs, sharing her dejection with him.

 

_Aemon Targaryen, a king’s son and a king’s brother and a king who might have been_. Jon tells her how he last remembers the wise Maester. The Maester had lost his sight but he was still the most knowledgeable man Jon has known. He regrets that in his efforts of trying to saving him from the Red priestess’ bloodthirsty fires, he may have sent him to an early grave.

 

“How would you have known? You were doing him a favour. He was too old anyway.” She says. She does not burn, she tell him then and that is the reason they call her the Unburnt. But she can imagine it must hurt for she has heard men scream.

 

_And you still burnt them?_ He wants to ask but holds his tongue. His is not unburnt and there is proof of it. She sees it too, and turns away from him. _She must think me another pretender._

 

She begins looking through the Maester’s meagre belongings. “Ser Barristan told me that Rhaegar was in touch with uncle Aemon. Do you know of any letters they may have exchanged?”

_It is not an innocent question_ , Jon thinks. So far she has never broached the subject of his parentage. “No, your grace.”

 

There is a look of sadness in her eyes.

 

She truly wanted to know more about her family. _They can’t all be mad_ , she thinks.

 

Jon then notices a sudden change in her remorseful expression.

 

_Rather convenient of you to say all correspondence is lost. You command this place after all._ The ghost of suspicion clings to her. _Three treasons you will know._

 

He needs her to trust him if they want to wage this impossible war and so he reminds her of her status as the Queen and that he is no threat to her crown. _I care naught for thrones or titles, I didn’t want to be the King in the North and I don’t want the Iron Throne either,_ he tells her.

 

She listens intently before asking him, “You still hold the North as its King.”

 

“The North needed someone to guide them through the long night and that is why they chose me when no one wanted to have anything to do with them. This war will take me and I will leave my kingdom to you. No one will be foolish enough to stand against your dragons and armies.” He snarls bitterly this time. “But this is not the time for playing politics, my people need to remain united and focused on _this_ war. If I bend the knee now, it only serve to fuel the fire of discord in my own yard. Or you could have me killed when you no longer have need of me for all I care.”

 

She can feel the bite in his words, the hatred and disdain for what he _thinks_ he knows about her.

 

“I am not a kinslayer, _Your Grace_.” She taunts him and then scowls. “I know what people say. The man who called himself my brother’s son was no dragon. It was all a mummer’s farce, a conspiracy in making for years.” There is anger in her words when she tells him of the Blackfyre pretender who called himself Aegon Targaryen, son of the Last Dragon.

 

“I would have made peace with him too but I was given a dubious choice. Share my crown and bed with him and another woman or fight. I chose latter, Your Grace.” She remarks.

 

She is not vindictive, he realizes. It is not too hard to understand her when she opens up to him. He also wonders why will any man want another woman when he has _her._

 

“Was he --?” He stutters and immediately regrets his misplaced attempt to prod further.

 

“Already wed? In love with another? Neither. He wanted things I could not give him.” Her eyes lower in regret and sadness.

 

It is a troubling thought, one he cannot comprehend, but he can hear the quiver in her unsteady voice. “I’m sorry.” He murmurs.

 

*

 

“The Wall is magic, I have read.” she says, “Why do I not feel it?” She sups with him almost every evening since her arrival a moon ago, It is the first time she has spoken anything other than ledgers, rations and war with him. First time since their unsettling conversation at Aemon’s chambers.

 

“The spell was broken when the three-eyed-raven crossed the barrier.  He was marked by the White Walkers.” He tells her.

 

She knows who the three-eyed-raven is and that he shares the memories of her ancestor. _Or so the Starks say_ , she thinks.

 

_Trust none of them, Daenerys. Remember the Undying._

 

"What happened with you?" She wants to know the King in the North so that she can shed her paranoia and mistrust.

 

She asks again when he does not answer “Your men worship you like one of the Gods. It is not nothing. They say you came back from the dead.” She holds her gaze and patiently waits for him to unravel.

 

Jon shifts uncomfortably.

 

“Treason. You may call it mutiny. I will let you decide. Some of the black brothers were unhappy with the decisions I made during my stint as the Lord Commander. They tried me as a traitor.”

 

He tells her how the Night’s Watch has been seeking help from the Iron Throne for as long as he can remember, about Stannis and his Red Priestess, his decision to help the wildlings from beyond the Wall and then he finally tells her about the pink letter from Ramsay Bolton.

 

“I only wanted to save my little sister from the Boltons.” It was the day he earned an army for himself and lost his life.

 

She has known treason. Treason dealt out to her by her trusted advisor, and later she was betrayed by the man she agreed to wed and crown him her king. “It was treason.” She says with fire in her eyes.

 

She feels sad for him, the kind of sadness she felt when she was stranded in the Dothraki Sea with no one but Drogon and a distant, mournful howl of a wolf for companions. She wants to say that she is sorry that he died all alone, far away from home, or that he has never known what home truly feels like. _I haven’t either._

 

He does not say how he often sees his own dead body lying frozen in ice and how he yearns for warmth in his bones. When she looks at him, he can see his own melancholy reflected in her eyes. He fears she can read his thoughts for he can read hers. _Is she mourning me?_ He wonders.

 

She lowers her eyes and reaches for her cup of mulled wine pondering over the events. _Dying trying to save a sister? A half-sister whose mother treated him like runt._ That is something that is incomprehensible to her.

 

Jon can see the confusion in her eyes. “What is it, Your Grace? You think me a liar or does the notion of sitting next to a dead man scare you?" He remarks tartly.

 

She sips the wine and stares into the dark grey abyss that are his eyes.

 

“I am sorry for what happened to you for doing the right thing and I am glad you executed them. And no, you do not scare me. You are not dead.” She tries to remain passive but her eyes betray her. She cannot hold her gaze anymore; should he see her vulnerability.

 

“I do not quite understand the familial bonds like you do. I was orphaned at birth, you see. When I grew up, my brother sold me. He wanted a large army to conquer Westeros. I was a piece in his game of Cyvasse. A worthless rabble to be traded for the king.”

 

She should not be telling him all this, but she must find it in her to trust again and his silence makes it easy to confide in him. Like, he won’t hurt her with the truth. “I was sold like a broodmare and then against my wishes, my own husband claimed his rights every night for months.”

 

“Your own brother hurt you and your husband forced himself on you?” Jon says unwittingly as his hands curl in fists. _Men must be chivalrous, they must honour and protect women_ , he thinks, gushing with a surge of protectiveness towards the woman seated across him. He feels a bond of kinship with her in that moment. _She is a queen and does not need your pity._ He sips the bitter ale and pours some more as she looks away.

 

Her Unsullied and her Blood Riders follow her wherever she goes. That evening he escorts her to her chambers for the first time since arrival at the Wall. She stops at the door. “Would you care to share some wine, Your Grace? I have some of the best wine from Essos and from the Redwyne cellars.”

 

He wants to say _yes_. “No, thank you, Your Grace. I should retire. We have a ranging tomorrow.”

 

“If you wish, you may call me Jon.” He says before turning away, understanding that she does not know how to address him and is always hesitant and incoherent when they are alone.

 

_You can call me Dany._ She opens her mouth to say it but instead smiles sadly.

 

She reaches out to him and wraps her fingers around his wrist and presses it firmly. “I will come with you on the morrow. Sleep well, Your Grace.”

 

He can feel the heat in her touch through the sleeve of his doublet. The part of his exposed skin just above his glove, that her fingers touched, sears. She makes him uneasy, reminding him how cold he has been all his life.

 

He waits until she closes the door behind her and walks towards the winch, then up the Wall, to remind himself that he will never feel any warmth again. _She cannot thaw me, no one can._

*

 

“Walkin’ is good, fightin’ is better, and fuckin’ is best to keep yer balls from freezing when ye go beyond the Wall, ye pieces of shit! Since none of ye know where to put yer tiny peckers, pickup yer swords and fight!” A man bellows.

 

It has to be the king in the north’s wildling friend, Tormund. She stifles her laughter, should the men assume the queen to be a wanton woman who enjoys bawdy jests. She walks away swiftly and stiffly, without looking at the men practicing in the yards.

 

In the days that follow, she hears less and less ribaldry and so she occasionally stops on the wooden walkways above the yard and takes to watching the men in the training yard.

 

She has made it a habit now and every day she stands there, looking at the men, looking at their King. He shows them the right way to grip the sword, to fight with two swords if need be, to use the obsidian dagger, to tackle the foe to the ground and neutralise them. “Never use a low guard, strike from a height.” Jon bellows and retires to the side-lines to observe.

 

When he steps back to watch his men, he can feel her eyes on him. It flusters him in the beginning. Then he stops paying any mind to it and sweeps a black fur cloak about his shoulders and turns away. Smiling.

 

Now he enjoys it. There are days when he ignores the world around him and tilts his head in her direction. She does not shy away either. It is a game they are playing and have come to enjoy it. He blinks first, but there are days she blinks first; only because she is letting him win.

 

When she has ruffled him to her heart’s content, she leaves. She wants to learn to manoeuvre Drogon better when the skies are covered in fog and there is not much visibility. She also wants to command Rhaegal and Viserion through her blood bond, but it is unlike the control she has over Drogon, her tether snaps way too often and Rhaegal is swiftly straying away from her, vexing her and forcing her to make a choice.

 

She knows what she must do but she is not ready to part with her child. She has nothing other than her dragons that she can call hers; truly hers. They can question her claim over the Bay of Dragons or the seven kingdoms. The two things no one has ever questioned are her Targaryen name and that she is the mother of dragons. _A mother doesn’t give away one of her children._

 

It has become a necessity for him to command one of her dragons. She has confided in him that she is losing control over the green beast and it would hurt their chances in the war that they are waging. When he rides it, it is an empowering and an enabling feeling. He can understand her better now, what it takes to have that kind of power at ones disposal and still show restraint and make compromises. _From ashes she can recreate the world of her dreams._

 

When his feet touch the ground again, something changes in Jon and he finally accepts. Its name is Rhaegal and it is not a beast. Like Ghost is not a beast to him. He sees _him_ differently now. He can neither nuzzle nor share Jon’s conscious like Ghost does. There is a bond still.

 

_So these are my inheritances, a dragon and a direwolf._ He chuckles mirthlessly, looking at the skies for an answer.

 

There is nothing else he can call his own, even the foundations of his northern crown are built on the kindness of a dead king who was once his brother. Half-brother. Cousin. He shakes his head at the irony.

 

The day Jon rides Rhaegal, Daenerys knows there is another that shares her blood. She curses herself for not admitting it sooner for it is rather easy and comforting to know that she is not alone, she is not the last of the Targaryens. Her blood will live on.

 

When she is alone in her chambers that night, she drops on the floor, knowing that she has lost _something_ , she clutches her chest and cries, feeling the kind of loneliness she has not felt since she lost her Rhaego. _Dragons plant no trees._

 

*

 

The war is long and exhausting. It breaks them many times over, rendering them powerless before the will of the Gods. He comforts her when her white and gold dragon is grievously injured and she wails like a child in his arms. He can only rub her back and run his hand over her head for as long as it takes for her to calm down. He has always been poor with words, so he hopes that she can find some comfort in his silence.

 

“He is my son.” She keeps saying again and again. He wants to tell her that she is a woman, her son will have two arms and two legs, small fingers and toes with pink nails, his cry will be laughter and sunshine, he will be born without teeth and when he grows teeth, they will be like pearls and that he will be small enough for her to cradle him in her arms but he keeps quiet. He is not good with words.

 

It takes them a year and countless lives to win the ‘great war’. There was no greatness in that war or any other war. Calling it great is an obscene glorification of worst kind of butchery mankind has ever seen or will see for generations to come.

 

*

 

Jon has not seen her since the living won. No, she has not left, not yet. He has heard her soothing voice and he has felt her tears on his skin.

 

The first time he shivers with cold, she shouts commands and brings summer to him. When he first wiggles his fingers, she is there to hold his hand. When he says ‘ _water’_ , she presses a moist cotton ball against his parched lips. “You cannot drink water, your grace, the Maesters have forbidden it. I will send for the concoction.” She comforts him with her presence and her soothing voice.

 

He tries to keep awake when he senses her near and wants to sleep the rest of the time.

 

He cannot open his eyes yet but he hears everything. In a day or two he will be able to see again, the anticipation is too much, making him anxious and wanting to see her the first thing, when he can.

 

When he finally wakes up, he sees servants and Maesters all around him. She visits him an hour later. Pale and fragile, her queenly mask back in place.

 

*

 

It has been a moon since the war ended. The King in the North promised her banners safe passage through his lands. It turns out, as they march back through the thawing Kingsroad, the northerners cheer for these foreign armies and southern knights who came to protect their homeland. They provide them hospitality and share with them whatever is left to these smallfolks.

 

It gladdens her heart and gives her hope to see her people loved and accepted the way she always wanted. It’s the games the lords play that make her the infamous austere queen who enjoys burning people. That and her gender. _Aegon Targaryen was a conqueror and I will be written off as the mad queen if the lords get their way._

 

In the late hours of night, the queen hears three faltering knocks on her chamber doors. She is dressed in her night gown. She covers her modesty in the furs from her bed, wrapping them around her, and answers. Seeing Jon with Ghost, she does not doubt why her guards let him pass. Her smile is puerile.

 

She lets him in and closes the door behind him. Ghost stays outside.

 

“Ale?” she asks, lifting a flagon from her desk.

 

“No, I’d like to taste that famous Essosi wine you always favoured.”

 

They arrange some furs on the floor and sit close to the hearth.

 

“This is – really good.” he says, savouring the wine.

 

“Didn’t I say so? You should have listened to me sooner.” She grins.

 

“You’re leaving.”

 

“In two days, I cannot stay any longer. Lord Tyrion needs me.”

 

“I’m sure he has a long list of lords waiting for –" he hides his discomfort in a chuckle and wine.

 

She tinkers with her brow and nods in agreement. “You too will need to return home soon. I’m sure all the ladies from those sketches their fathers so painstakingly brought to you here, must be waiting for you at Winterfell.”

 

Jon snorts and laughs so hard, some wine spills from his lips. She quickly grabs a linen and wipes the corners of his lips. When her hands journey below, to his doublet, right above where his heart should be, he grabs her wrists, “Fret not. It is too old and its black.” And she immediately withdraws her hands and twines her fingers in her lap.

 

"Is everything alright?" She waits for him to explain why he is really there, but a silence stretches on instead. "Is there something you wish to say?"

 

“You should claim the North. _The North Remembers_. My people will not forget what you did for them. No one will question you, not after all of _this_.’ He tells her.

 

She smiles with honesty. “Let them remain with their chosen king. I want a better life for the people, a better world. Whether it is under my rule or yours, it is inconsequential to me and to the people.”

 

He wants to say something, he really does, but it is as if his mind has wandered off to a different place and time.

 

Her furs have slipped down her shoulders and a silk nightgown is all there is to cover her. He is looking at her, into her. Her teats pucker and stiffen and he can see that too but he does not avert his gaze.

 

When Jon snatches the goblet from her hand, the wine spills everywhere. A dash of red on the white furs. She is thrown back on the floor, flattened furs and his arms are her only cushion. His lips meet hers in a violent collision. All he has to do is yank one end of the string that is holding her modesty. And he does. His eyes devour her like the fiercest predator of lands and skies. Like a starved man, he feasts on her, tasting her with his hands and mouth. He sits on his haunches and holds her thighs apart and watches her pink core clench when she peaks.

 

In his desperation, he does not rid himself of his clothes, only plucks the laces of his breeches and pulls his erection out. He strokes himself between the folds of her gash and then buries it deep into her abyss in one potent thrust. They move as one, matching thrust for thrust, their lips are blue and bruising, and their lungs are in want of air. She rubs herself against his touch, moans as his fingers tightly circle her sensitive nub. Her walls clamp and tighten their grip on his shaft when he rhythmically hits the sweet spot of desire inside her, spilling his seed deep within her womb.

 

They lay there breathless until chill seeps through the cold stones into their exhausted bodies. Jon bends down to pick her up and carry her to bed as she instinctively wraps her legs around him. He goes back and rekindles the fire in the hearth, placing fresh logs from the pile. It will last a few more hours.

 

“The room is warm now.” He says returning to bed and pulling away the furs that cover her.

 

“It is unfair, the amount of clothes I am wearing and you are wearing.”

 

“You’re wearing none.” He smirks.

 

“That was my point.” Her arm covers her chest when she turns and hoists herself on one elbow.

 

She presses her thighs together and leers at him when he strips. He holds her gaze, boldly undoing his lacings, shoving his breeches below his arse, peeling his smallclothes away, and -- neither of them blinks. They enjoy their little games. He stops at his shirt.

 

She leaves the bed behind and flushes herself to him, kissing him earnestly and then turning around and gathering all her hair on one side of her breasts. Behind her, she hears the crunching of his knuckles. “You may touch them. They no longer hurt.”

 

“Who did this to you?” He seethes through his clenched teeth.

 

“Some men. They paraded me as their trophy and flogged me like cattle for their amusement.” There was a forlornness in her voice.

 

“Are they dead?” He asks and ‘ _good’_ she hears when she nods.

 

“We all have scars, Your Grace. Some are on the inside and they are more hideous than any marks we carry on our flesh.” She assures him.

 

He takes her shoulders, turns her to him and pulls his shirt over his head, letting it drop to ground.

 

There is not much to say. He fears he may become addicted to the feel of having her wrapped around him.

 

She moans as she nears the apex of pleasure and drags her nails on his skin. Her mouth forms a curve and she says something incoherent that sounds like his name.

 

“Jon. Call me Jon.” He rasps on her skin.

 

“And I am Dany to you, Jon. Say it.” She responds by tangling her fingers in his hair and arching into his arms.

 

She says ‘ _Jon’_ with every gasp and moan, as if she has been waiting all her life to say his name. She says it with so much longing, he may come to love his name. His answer to all her ‘ _Jons’_ is an impassioned ‘ _Dany’_. He rasps ‘ _Dany’_ one last time when her shudders die and his begin.

 

He rolls off of her and his fingers gently caress her womb. She feels a tightening in her chest but does not ask him to stop.

 

She thinks of little dragons she wants to give him. Little Rhaegars and Rhaellas for him to dote on. She wonders if they will have her silver hair or Jon’s raven, her lilac eyes or Jon’s grey ones. She wants them to have Jon’s poise and his smile. They could be all Jon and she will still be the happiest woman, she thinks.

 

Her eyes are set on the grey ceiling and tears roll down the corners, onto her pillow.

 

“My womb is cursed. I will never bear another living child.” She finally manages to tell him.

 

His fingers become motionless and so does his heart.

 

She lays lithe in his arms when they say their next words.

 

“I once saved a Lhazareen priestess from my khal’s men. I did not understand the depths of her hatred then. She murdered both the khal I was sold to, and his child I was carrying inside me. I carry a witch’s curse on my womb, Jon.” She says mournfully. “She told me that I will never bear a living child. I burnt her alive and that is the price I have paid for my dragons.”

 

Jon takes in her words and thinks for a long time. He lives in a world where the punishment for insubordination is beheading, men are flayed by Lords who must be protecting them, and children are burnt as offerings to the Gods. In the end he decides he would have done worse with that witch.

 

“I have been married before. Or so some would believe. The man who led us on a ranging mission beyond the Wall left the fate of a wildling woman in my hands. I spared her life and took her as my hostage. On _that_ side of the Wall, this is all it takes for a man to call a woman his wife. I was compelled to lay with her to prove my allegiance to the freefolk. Those were my commander’s last orders for me. And then I lay with her of my own will.”

 

_So you were sold too,_ she thinks.

 

“I do not think I gave her a child.”

 

_Don’t say that. You are the last hope for my house, for my blood._ Her heart may as well shrivel and sink beneath her ribs right now.

 

It is a moment of sincerity and they do not want to sully it with false promises or hopes that will never be fulfilled.

 

He makes love to her again in the fading darkness of night. Tender, reassuring love.

 

_‘Are we the last of House Targaryen?’_ She asks the Gods bitterly when Jon has found peace.

 

Somewhere in the skies, her dragons roar in defiance.

 

*****


	2. Fear Is For The Winter - II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few readers suggested that I upload the remaining part of my original outline that I excluded when I posted this story 2 days ago. For those of you who think I should have left the story as a one-shot, I’m truly sorry. I’m keeping my fingers crossed and hoping I haven’t made a mistake. 
> 
> In any case, I'd appreciate your feedback. Thanks for reading.

She knows she will find him here. “I will miss this.” She says, admiring the endless expanse of the lands to the north of the Wall merging into the vast, blue skies, stretched out ‘til infinity.

 

She is pale as moon, her cheeks flushed red, her hair windswept and her cloak taken to wind; truly a silver queen. He can stand there and watch her for the rest of his life. He desires to hold her, kiss those pink lips and --

 

“Jon, I plan to consult with my small council and name you my heir. Would you accept a seat at the council for one of your bannermen and –” she pauses and then continues, “consider your claim over the castle of Dragonstone, mayhaps? I do not dispute it, you should know that.”

 

He sighs. Before she can say anything else, he knows what he has to say. “The Iron Throne is yours not because of any man’s benevolence, it’s yours because you want a better world for the people and because you cared enough to fight for it. Your crown is safe and you have nothing to worry from me or anyone else.”

 

Daenerys regards his words carefully. “My crown will never be safe. A year or five years from now, or when I’m old, someone will always covet it. I will provide no heirs and the lords will tear the realms apart.”

 

“I was a mere girl who was fighting for survival and to not perish in the Red Waste. When everything was taken away from me, I saw a family in the faces of slaves and I lived and fought for them. I covet no crowns, I only ever wanted to live.”

 

“Whatever you think of me, I do not want any crowns either. This is my kingdom, this is my command; from this day until the end of my days.” Jon stretches his hands wide and smiles. A smile that is colder than frost.

 

“The Wall is crumbling. I’m not sure your kingdom will stand for much longer.” She tries to laugh and make light of an impossible situation.

 

“Won’t be the worst thing to happen, it has divided men for too long.” He says, looking away and resting his hands on the wooden reinforcements along the edges.

 

“The North will remain independent for as long as I live and I will name you my heir. In time the seven realms will unite under your banners.” _Under the blood of Aegon the conqueror,_ her heart swells in pride. “I have made this decision and I will not change it.” She tells him firmly, leaving no scope for debate.

 

Before she can turn around and leave, the sun rises in the far east horizon and the blue hues of the morning sky give way to the soft golden of dawn, wiping away all remnants of the night. From where she sees, the sunrays shine through Jon’s dark curls, rendering them a rare red and orange glow. _Fire_. He reminds her of fire. Fire that has been her companion, fire that runs through her veins.

_Bride of fire._

 

It is a frivolous thought. She must leave him. _His wildling was cursed, like I am._ _Another woman will give him sons and daughters of his flesh and blood and he will take every crown that this world has to offer. He will take it for his children._ The thought is bittersweet.

 

“Do you – dislike my brother?” she hesitantly asks him.

 

He is not angry at anyone anymore. His sire who died before he could pledge his love for the realms to see, his mother who lived just long enough to birth him and then left him alone to unite with her beloved, the uncle who let him believe he was a mistake only to see to it that he breathed, the Lady who only saw her husband’s unfaithfulness in him and treated him as such. He is not angry at any of _them_.

 

“No.” His smile is the saddest that she has seen on any man.

 

“You will be a great King. No matter what name you take. And you care too much for your people to not lead them to a better life, into a better world.”

 

“Dany –”

 

“No, Jon. Don’t say it.” _Winterfell has its Starks, Dragonstone deserves its Targaryens._ There is a plea in her voice that he cannot disregard.

 

There is nothing else he can say to her except, “I wish you good fortune and success in your life.”

 

_There’s no life without you, Jon._ She acknowledges his words with a polite nod and then expectantly asks, “Will you come see me sometime? With your queen and your children? I’d love to meet them.” Her own words leave an open wound in her heart.

 

_Don’t do this to yourself and to me. I am a man and not a stallion who will breed with any mare in heat, or stand aside and give you away to a perfumed lord._ He cannot say this to her for he fears he will lose his temper and worse, hurt her.

 

“No. I won’t.” he replies coldly and slants her face to his with his fingers. Tears stain her cheeks and rim his eyes when he kisses her endlessly and she holds him for a very long time, till their tears dry up.

 

“To remember me by.” These are his last words to her as she leaves fragments of her shattered heart on the Wall and walks towards the winch cage.

 

He watches her as she disappears in the clouds. Rhaegal does not follow them.

*

He has lost many men to war. Men who were his friends once, brothers, noble knights whom he had come to respect, spirited soldiers who laughed in the face of death, wildlings who trusted him and stood by him when the real war came, brave men who had come from Essos and gave their lives for a land that was not theirs, for people they never knew. He has lost them all. And in the end, he loses her too. Not to war, but loses her nevertheless.

 

Without her, only silence reigns over the castle. He wonders if his nightmares were more amiable than his dreams of her. In his dreams he remembers her during the last few days of her stay, he also sees her curled against him, completing him in a way no one ever can.

 

Somewhere between the time she left, and now, his blood has frozen again in the wasteland that is his existence.

 

The sounds of laughter of remaining men in the castle are more terrible than any sadness he has ever felt. Mirthless and cold, echoing the futility of life. He wants to decree that laughter must be outlawed. _The Mad King’s grandson indeed._

 

He can no longer stay there. In less than a moon, he rides south, to Winterfell.

 

On his way he observes that the weather is turning fast. He can see new grass sprouting from the earth, tiny purple flowers in their early bloom lining both sides of the Kingsroad. Life finds a way.

 

He does his duty, ensuring the lands and his people heal. He deals with the erring lords with a firm hand, asking his maester to write down the laws of his kingdom so that every man, woman and child of noble birth or otherwise understands the consequences of their actions.

 

He resolves disputes between the smallfolk, passes judgement on people for their crimes. He quickly realises that people have returned to their old ways. Thieves, conmen, murderers are again lurking across his kingdom. _The Others should have taken them_ , he thinks without remorse.

 

_The king is ruthless,_ he hears one day. He does not understand how gelding a raper is kinder than taking his head?

 

_Gods be good, why would any man ever want to be king? There’s no fuckin’ joy in any of this!_

 

The north needs aid; grain and coin, both. His resolves such matters with the neighbouring kingdom through his advisors. He smiles and caresses the parchment that carries her sigil or her name. He sometimes writes a letter to her and then gives it to fire. She had made it abundantly clear what she wants of him.

 

As days pass, the lords insist on choosing a bride for the King in the North. To give him heirs and strengthen his bloodline, everyone says. Since the time Queen Daenerys named him her heir, it is abundantly clear that the Queen in the North will birth the heir to the Iron Throne.

 

“If one more lord pushes for a marriage, I will have them imprisoned. Send them all away.” He orders furiously. His council reminds him that it his duty to provide stability to the realms.

 

“Tell them Jon can’t do that thing that needs to be done to beget heirs. They will believe it, after-all, they all know he died once.” Arya suggests with a straight face.

 

“Arya!” Sansa chides her as Jon hangs his head between his hands.

 

“What? He does not wish to marry anyone. Then what is wrong with telling them that?”

 

Tormund eyes him curiously, “King Snow, so ye canna –"

 

“Enough!” he stands, red faced. “These lords won’t bother if I am not the king. I’ll relinquish the crown and go to Essos. I can fight, I’ll join a sellsword company.” he tells them.

 

“Haven’t you fought enough for two lifetimes? Just shut up, and stop running. And for what? If you so wish to go to Essos, go for a time and then return and do your duty. Don’t shame father. He has raised you better than that.” Arya tells him firmly. “We will tell the lords you needed to treat with the Iron Bank.”

 

“Or tell ‘em what the lassie says. Me thinks there may be some truth --”

 

“Get out, all of you!” He has had enough of it.

 

None of them understand him. He does not want any of it, neither the crown nor its heirs. The truth is, he does not want to do it alone. Without her, he is empty and abandoned. He does not see her in his dreams anymore and the only living-worthy memory he has is slowly fading. He fears one day he will not remember her face.

 

She has not written to him, not once in all this time and he does not know if she thinks of him as much as he does. Or at all.

*

He is returning from the wolfswood when Rhaegal appears at the edge of the forest and starts behaving erratically. “What’s gotten into you, Rhaegal?” Then Ghost begins acting strange and refuses to go back to Winterfell.

 

“What the fuck has gotten into you both?” He is getting angrier with every passing moment but the dragon and the direwolf persist.

 

Jon informs his squire and walks towards Rhaegal and lets him take him wherever he wants. This quietens Ghost as well.

 

Rhaegal flies at stretch for hours, stopping at an abandoned hill somewhere in the Vale and then at an island ripe with smells of salt and smoke and with an intimidating castle in its background _. Dragonstone,_ Jon realizes _._ Rhaegal flies again, taking him past the Narrow Sea, past Tyrosh, further down the Stepstones, south of Summer Seas, and then Jon _sees_. Rhaegal flies above the clouds, quiet as a shadow, above a large armada with the Kraken banners. Behind the Kraken, Jon sees large banners of the Harpy. He remembers it from all the tales Daenerys had told him of the Ghiscari legions.

 

_I should burn them all._ His rage in that moment is unhinged. On the decks, he sees simple foot soldiers, boys not more than five and ten and he feels no remorse for them. He scares himself.

 

Rhaegal retreats as quietly as he came.

 

Jon reflects on her gentleness and her compassion, despite the losses and the injustices she has endured and despite being completely capable of burning every opposition down to its foundations. She will mend his soul, he knows it. Without her, he will be lost in the seas as dark as the blackwater below his wings. He shakes his head, _as if I need more reasons for falling in love with her_.

 

Daenerys sees Rhaegal from the large window of her solar and a black cloaked figure on his back. _Jon_ , she whispers, and her tears fall unbridled. It is taking him forever to find her. She wants to run outside like a girl and hold him, touch him, see that he is truly here. She stays back in her chambers and waits for him.

 

Before long, Rhaegal lowers himself inside a courtyard. Jon has never been here, but it appears the castle guards are aware of his identity. He sees some familiar faces in the keep. They smile with familiarity and bow to him calling him, ‘Your Grace’. The Unsullied and the Dothraki remember him too. The queensguard do not obstruct his path when he is escorted to the royal chambers.

 

“You came.” She says without turning around, looking outside the window, an unusually large cloak fastened around her shoulders.

 

“I did.” He says, taking small cautious steps towards her. He wants to see more than that errand curl of her hair that silhouettes her cheek and as if she has heard the murmurs of his heart, she turns around.

 

She reminds him of colours. Not the grey and dreary of cold, not the black of his nightmares, she reminds him of the vibrant hues of spring. The silver of her hair, the lilac of her eyes, the pink of her lips, the red of her cheeks. She is colours, she is life.

 

_Gods!_ The word escapes his lips. _It must be a sin in the eyes of Gods to be this beautiful!_   Suddenly, he stiffens and pulls his shoulders back. Swallowing a knot in his throat, he says, “It is mine.” It is not a question.

 

“Yes.” She smiles timidly and rests her hands over her thickening waist.

 

“Why didn’t you say anything? You should have written to me.” He reaches her in five long strides. There is indignation in his eyes. _Betrayal!_ He grabs her arms harshly. “It was my right to know. Tell me, why was I left out from the most important tiding of my life?”

 

She twists her arm and Jon frees her from his strong grip.

 

“You do not know how many times I picked up a quill to inform you. To share _this_ with you. It had been three moons before I was certain. Even then I did not know and I still do not know what will happen.” She lets the words linger between them, all her worries and doubts left unsaid.

 

He tears into the roots of his hair and his voice fails to betray the bite in his words, “I am the father! You should have been with me! I should have been around!” His is delirious with her, with himself.

 

She stiffens at his angry words. “You left the Wall a moon after you said it was where you were going to stay. I do not fault you for it. It was the right thing to do. But how was I to know you will not do right by our house, by your kingdom, and decide you needed to give them an heir?”

 

“By the time I knew, you were already ruling from Winterfell and your small council was considering alliances through marriage. I know of some of the southern lords who wanted to see their daughter wed to the King in the North!” Her voice is unsteady and anxious.

 

He flexes his hand. “It was my decision who I marry, not yours! You never gave me a choice.” He purses his lips and inches closer to her and then feels let down and steps away.

 

“You never wrote to me, you had Rhaegal with you but you never once came to see me. I do not wish to force you into anything. If the Gods are kind, I will legitimise my child and not let them grow a bastard if that is what you fear.” She cannot seek forgiveness for any of this. It was not her intent to hide anything from him but there never was a time or a reason.

 

_You were the one who wanted me to wed and bed another!_ He shakes his head and lets his anger slide. There will be a time for explanations. A lifetime.

 

“You will hold our child in your arms. I will ensure it with my last breath and that is my promise to you, Dany” He mellows his voice and bids her understanding.

 

When she extends her hand, he takes it and curls it around his back and draws her in. His mouth descends on hers, gently brushing his tongue over her lips and they are locked in a dance of tenderness, urgency, warmth and longing.

 

He tells her he has missed her.

 

“I have missed you too, Jon.” Her voice is trembling. “I missed the sanctuary I found myself in when I was with you. All those nights when I lay awake, how I wished I had met you before _everything_.” She weeps in his arms and once again, he fears he cannot comfort her.

 

He hauls her as close as she can get. “I hear you, Dany. I too wish I could have carried you away before _everything_. Not just for you, for myself.” They stay quiet for a long time.

 

“The Kraken is raising his head.” He breaks the silence.

 

“I know, we are preparing for yet another war. Didn’t I tell you they’ll come for me.” She laughs bitterly.

 

“I’ll stay here for as long as you need me.” He smoothens her hair with his callused hands and touches his lips to her crown. “You will make peace on your own terms this time. I am calling my banners and the northern fleet.” He tells her.

 

“I am grateful to you for it. But why are you really here?” she tips her head upwards and looks at him for an answer.

 

Jon inhales sharply before speaking. “I want to be with you, Dany. My fears are not of my own death, they are of forgetting your lovely face and your beautiful smile. My life is a fucking wreck without you in it. In your eyes, by your side, I see the man I want to be.” He kisses her again and rubs his thumb over her cheeks. “If not now, I would have wandered the world and come to you moons later or a year or two from now. But it is you I will always come back to, I know it.” There’s sincerity in his words.

 

“What if I was married by then?” She pulls away and stiffens her jaw.

 

“You would not have.” There is sureness in his voice.

 

“You don’t know that.” _Does he not see the travesty in this?_

 

“I don’t know Daenerys. I don’t know.” He repeats for good measure. “All I know is, I love you and I know that you love me. That morning when you left me, I knew it in my heart that you cannot belong to anyone but me and I belonged with you.” With that, he kisses her again, pouring all the love he holds for her, his desperation and his demands, all of it in that one kiss that leaves them both breathless and blithe.

 

“Tell me _now_ if you would not have waited for me.” he demands. She curls into him and tells him that she was done making alliances through marriage a long time ago.

 

“I love you, Jon.” She says to him for the first time, no matter he knows it heretofore.

 

“I love you, Dany, I have loved you for a long time now. It is rather easy to love you, your gentle heart.” He smiles, aware that he is not a bleeding poet.

 

“My gentle heart? Is that all?” She asks glancing between his lips and his eyes.

 

“And you’re easy on the eyes. That helps too.” He smirks as she smilingly raises her brow.

 

He looks around. “Are these my chambers?”

 

“These are mine.”

 

“Looks like they’re big enough for the two of us. Unless –“

 

“I want you to stay here.” She bites her lip at the eagerness of her voice.

 

“Do you have a weirwood tree in your capital?” His fingers have not stopped tracing the swell of her belly.

 

“No. But we have a Sept and a Godswood with a heart tree.”

 

“Hmm --” He thinks something and then says, “Either will do.” She smiles in his chest and he can feel it.

 

“There’s food and wine waiting for you. Shall we?” She asks him.

 

“I haven’t eaten in two days. But I cannot remember when was the last time I --.” Without warning, he lifts her in his arms. “Show me the way to your bedchambers.”

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> I love these two to pieces so can't stop writing about them. Wrote it same time around the first story but never found the nerves to post this one.
> 
> Book readers will know that I have taken most of their inner thoughts from George's ASOIAF. For others, yeah, I did that. 
> 
> Was it alright?


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